


we convinced our friend to run for political office 'and it went like...'

by warningfandomobsessed



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Politics, Christmas Party, Embedded Images, Embedded Video, Enjolras Is Bad At Communicating, Enjolras and Cosette Fauchelevent are Siblings, Enjolras and Cosette Fauchelevent are Twins, F/M, Fluff, Getting Together, Grantaire Is Bad At Feelings, Humor, I'm Bad At Summaries, M/M, Miscommunication, Multi, Nonbinary Jehan Prouvaire, Social Media, This is really dumb, Vaguely Christmassy, and maybe ferre but he's on thin fucking ice, apart from Éponine, i never intend to write jehan as not nonbinary, seriously at this point he/him jehan is really jarring to me, seriously this is teetering on the edge of being crack, they don't communicate and it causes minor problems, they're all so dumb, tiktok references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:09:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28287513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/warningfandomobsessed/pseuds/warningfandomobsessed
Summary: Will these two besotted morons get their shit together before Christmas, or will they spend the rest of the way to the polls dancing around each other and being the dumbasses that we all know they are?Aka - Grantaire is Marius's campaign's social media manager and Enjolras the speechwriter is internet illiterate.
Relationships: Bahorel & Grantaire (Les Misérables), Bahorel/Feuilly (Les Misérables), Combeferre & Courfeyrac & Enjolras (Les Misérables), Combeferre & Enjolras (Les Misérables), Cosette Fauchelevent/Marius Pontmercy, Enjolras & Cosette Fauchelevent, Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Grantaire & Jean Prouvaire, Grantaire & Éponine Thénardier, Joly/Bossuet Laigle/Musichetta, Les Amis de l'ABC Friendship, Éponine Thénardier & Gavroche Thénardier
Comments: 10
Kudos: 35





	we convinced our friend to run for political office 'and it went like...'

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LeLibre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeLibre/gifts), [witchlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchlight/gifts).



> A fic featuring dumb memes I made using the Instagram story feature because i am what they call 'a professional'. This was originally supposed to be a short[ish] Christmas fic for the lovely Jennah for our groupchat's Christmas fic exchange - for context the agreed-upon length was around 2-3k. I may have gone a bit overboard... therefore this has become a joint gift for Ember too - I am sorry about that but in my defence, you're just as bad as me and I'll finish your fic for Easter. 
> 
> Regarding the links to videos throughout the fic, they are one of three things: either it is a sound that they used on the campaign tiktok, or it's something that I used as inspiration for the original tiktoks they make, or it's a tiktok that i wanted to write them making but i didn't have the time and it wasn't relevant to the story, I'm pretty sure it's pretty obvious which is which based on context, but if you're unsure please don't hesitate to ask in the comments or shoot me an ask on tumblr [my username is the same over there!]

The Campaign office, overall, was far too small to accommodate even their relatively meagre ranks. The space consisted of three rooms in total, not counting the crop of tiny bathrooms that always seemed to be out of paper, of course. There was the back office – technically it was Marius’s private office but not only does he hate that it separates him from the rest of the campaign, but the room itself was dull in the extreme with its beige walls and its panelled carpeting and the fake cheese plant that had been banished thereafter the third time Bossuet had tripped over it and the second rant about functionless plastic consumption in as many hours from Enjolras. So, the plant had to go. Which was fine. To tell the truth, that office only existed to make Marius’s grandfather happy on the once-in-a-blue-moon occasion he decided to drop in on his only and least favourite grandchild.

The second of three rooms was the boardroom. It had the same beige walls and panelled carpeting, but it was around double the size of Marius’s office and contained several huge whiteboards, completely covered in pictures and strings and writing and Grantaire wanted so desperately to recreate the Pepe Silvia meme with it, however apparently, according to Éponine, “do it for the meme” is not a good enough reason to leak half a campaign’s worth of strategy to the internet. The table in the boardroom hadn’t been empty since they moved in, every inch of the wooden top plastered with documents and pamphlets and folders and files with dozens of cascading tabs… it was Enjolras’s favourite room, no doubt. There was no rhyme or reason, at least none that any of the campaign’s volunteers – or many of their esteemed inner circle – could figure out, to it all.

‘Organised Chaos’ was what Combeferre called it.

Marius just called it chaos.

Enjolras barely acknowledged it, but if something were moved to the “wrong” place, he would be in a foul mood until it was replaced, and he’d been handed a large mug – a bowl is also acceptable – of _very_ strong coffee.

The largest of all of the rooms was the main office space. It was a little over three times the size of the boardroom and separated into a workspace with desks and yet more tables stacked with papers and files, none of them where they should be. All of those desks, that is, apart from Grantaire’s. Their tired social media manager maintained his desk with a surprisingly restrained amount of clutter around his laptop and tablet – his home was in no way similar; there was no end to the clutter and mess, but those outside the inner circle don’t need to know that. Sometimes, he would physically print out memes and shuffle them about like a newscaster to feel included but, of course, that was completely self-indulgent – as was the scathing look Enjolras gave him later as he barely (read: absolutely not at all) restrained himself from giving R a lecture on wildlife conservation and the paper industry.

There was also a little kitchenette/break-room type thing in the corner of the biggest room. Nothing fancy; a microwave, a kettle, a coffee pot – which is always, _always_ stocked, on pain of an Enjolras-related death – and a fridge. Stuck to the fridge with an array of novelty magnets – supposedly all brought by Jehan, though Grantaire was certain he’d seen at least a few over at Feuilly and Bahorel’s place at some point – was an extensive manual written and compiled by Joly their team doctor about how to safely store things in the fridge and “Oh for the love of all that is holy, if I catch one of you storing raw meat in here _above_ the salads, the salmonella won’t have time to kill you.”

All mild-to-moderate threats upon human life aside, it was possibly the best job Grantaire had ever had.

He got paid, not an insane amount, but, enough that he didn’t have to worry about affording either rent or food each week so that was nice, and what he was getting paid for didn’t make him want to crawl into a bottle every night to cope with the unending monotony of “Now will you be paying with cash or with card?” and “I’m sorry, ma’am, but we have never sold shirts like that here. Why? Oh, because this is an art store. You’d like to speak to my manager? I’d thought as much.” In comparison with retail, this job was the fields of fucking Elysium. His job was to scoot around the office on his swivel chair and bother his friends until they made dumb internet content with him, and all under the expense of the absurdly rich Pontmercy’s. Truly, he wasn’t sure who he’d died for in a previous life to deserve the friends that got him this job and this life.

“Hey, Courfeyrac, courf, darling, _light of my life_!” he called, strolling into the boardroom where Courfeyrac was sitting ever-so-patiently with a ranting Enjolras. Well, he had been ranting until Grantaire had waltzed in with his absurd terms of endearment and Courfeyrac piped up with an even worse, “Yes, sugar ankles?”

Suffice to say, Enjolras was bewildered into something akin to silence.

“…Well this is horrendous please stop immediately,” he managed to grit out with a grimace. Courf waved his hand dismissively and turned to face R fully.

“Don’t mind him, r, he’s just jealous.” He flashed Grantaire and entirely unsubtle wink. Grantaire laughed. Enjolras scoffed. As was the exact track-record of their rather tumultuous relationship. “Now,” Courf continued, entirely unperturbed by the clashing vibes in the room after over eight years of this and worse, “What can I do for you on this most splendiferous afternoon?”

Enjolras made a mental note to burn Courfeyrac’s thesaurus the next time he saw it.

Just as Courfeyrac was unfazed by Enjolras and Grantaire’s volatile interactions, Grantaire himself was unaffected by the utter nonsense that tended to come out of Courf’s mouth. Though, that is to be expected, really. After all, the guy lived with Jehan for two years, during which he learned ‘The Jabberwocky’ off by heart through osmosis, so it’s really entirely unsurprising that he would’ve built up a kind of resistance to such absurdities. “Approve this TikTok before I post it?”

Courfeyrac sighed dramatically, already reaching for R’s phone. “Oh, how I must suffer for my cause.” He pressed play. Then paused it again. “This is the meet the team one?” Grantaire nodded. “Excellent. My TikTok debut!” He pressed play once again.

R appeared on the screen, the title ‘Meet the Team!’ edited over the first few seconds. Immediately, R began speaking clearly, but very, _very_ quickly. “Right!” TikTok-Grantaire said, “because TikTok only lets us have one minute we’re gonna have to speed run this meet the team bisnitch!”

The video cuts to a picture of Marius looking a tad confused, as is his general temperament, but, overall, just quite excited to be here. Grantaire’s voice continued speaking quickly over the picture. “Marius, Harvard educated politician with red hair and yet he is somehow not a Kennedy.”

The picture changed to one of Cosette, looking simultaneously flawless and professional yet friendly, a look that she seems to have mastered before any of the rest of them had figured out how to use an iron without singeing their clothes. “Cosette, badass human rights lawyer who brings us Dunks in her lunch break because she’s an actual angel.” Enjolras, though he hadn’t planned on paying any attention to whatever it is that Grantaire did all day, found himself humming appreciatively at the description of his twin sister. Also, coffee had been mentioned. He wasn’t addicted, really.

Next, a picture of Éponine and Combeferre at their joined desks, clearly having just had their conversation interrupted for this picture by Grantaire and neither massively pleased about it. “Éponine and Combeferre, strategist-managers supreme, very much a cat and a dog and they’re friends kinda dynamic except the dog is actually just a friendly cat.” Courfeyrac barked out a short laugh at that.

Enjolras looking rather eccentric appeared next. It was a picture clearly taking during one of his briefings in the boardroom, he had been pacing and his suit jacket had been thrown haphazardly over a nearby chair, and his hair was an absolute mess. Enjolras – the real-life one – thought he looked like he’d lost the plot entirely. TikTok-Grantaire seemed inclined to disagree. “Enjolras, master of writing compelling speeches and looking good doing it.” Enjolras didn’t blush. He didn’t.

Courfeyrac was next on the list. The picture was of him mid-laugh thus it is completely impossible to narrow down exactly when the picture may have been taken; the guy hardly stops laughing. “Courfeyrac, professional people person and actual ray of sunshine.” Courfeyrac cooed a little and patted R’s cheek like one might a child. Grantaire told him to fuck right off and, once again, there was something Enjolras didn’t do. He didn’t have to stop himself from smiling. Seriously.

“Feuilly and Jehan,” their picture was one taken last year when they had first moved into the office. Jehan was on Feuilly’s back and they both looked prepared to ride into battle at any given moment. That was a good day, Enjolras remembered with a fond smile. “they choose to be here for a pittance to stop us doing illegal stuff instead of living it up in the courtroom”

The picture of Bossuet that appeared next was the only one that Grantaire had managed to find where he hadn’t accidentally blinked as the photo was being taken and there was a not unnoticeable coffee stain on his shirt – both Joly and Musichetta had known there was be such trouble at some point that day when they’d watched as he put the crisp, white shirt on. Thankfully, Grantaire had placed the closed captions over the bulk of the stain so the words “Bossuet, campaign finance legend because he accidentally walked into an accounting class instead of law at university and didn’t realise it for the two months” covered the worst of it.

Gavroche came next, his picture smiling brightly, though the mischievous glint in his eyes unmistakable when you know what to look for. “Gavroche,” the voiceover said, “our darling intern who we didn’t hire, he started showing up like a feral cat that teaches us elderly the newest memes.” Slightly muffled from the background, there came a shout from Gavroche and made even Enjolras choke back some laughter. “SCREW YOU, R, IM AWESOME!” Enjolras remembered when that he been shouted across the office, baffling and alarming several of the poor volunteers and making Bahorel boom with laughter the moment R had given him the all-clear that he was done filming that part.

Next came Joly, looking up at the camera from his lunch with a slightly confused smile. If one were to look carefully at the reflection in a mirror in the background, one would see both Bossuet and Musichetta gazing at him with a lovesick kind of dopiness that Grantiare had expected to at least have faded a little bit almost three years into their relationship. Yeah, that hadn’t happened. Not even slightly. “Jolllly, our darling doctor who patches up Boss when he falls out of his chair and makes sure we all remember to consume more than Dunkin and B-12 supplements.” _Oh, shit,_ Enjolras thought suddenly, _I haven’t taken any vitamins in like a week. Better have some before Joly finds out._

The next picture, this one of Bahorel and Musichetta locked in a contest of strength they and a couple of weeks before. The Chetta vs Rel arm wrestling match had resulted in them being caught in a stalemate for twenty minutes, neither one gaining ground on the other. In fact, they barely moved at all until Boss dropped a mug in the kitchenette and the sound shocked them both back into PPO mode, ready to kick ass at the drop of a hat – or a mug, for that matter. “Bahorel and Musichetta, Buff PPO’s who could both snap my spine and I’d thank them.” Musichetta laughed heartily in the background. “In your dreams, little man!” Grantaire’s face appeared at the bottom of the screen, a perfect representation of mock-offence. The video of him wobbled considerably as laughing ensued and his shoulders shook with it, the video cutting out mid-guffaw and Enjolras couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed that the rest of his laugh was cut out.

His disappointment was short-lived, however, as Grantaire’s face took over the screen once again. “And me, Grantaire. Call me R. I do social media and my entire involvement in politics down to the fact that I simply don’t have any other friends.” A short pause and Enjolras was about to begin arguing vehemently that of course R is involved in politics for other reasons than simply his choice in friends, he is good, better than good, great! He’s great at his job and his presence would be missed considerably were he to suddenly not be around, but _quelle surprise_ Grantaire was talking again. “And we’re almost out of time,” he continued, his speech speeding up even further as the time ran out, still intelligible but slightly harder to keep up with uh, “what should I say?? Uhhhhh… oh! Register to vo—"

The TikTok ended and suddenly not just Grantaire but Enjolras too looking at Courf for approval.

Courfeyrac himself was silent for a moment or two, processing what he’d just seen. Finally, after several vaguely agonising moments of waiting for Grantaire, he spoke. “Jesus fucking Christ, R, how do you talk so fast? I mean, good god!”

The slightest hint of unsurety on R’s face disappeared faster than it had shown up and a cocky smirk appeared in its place. “Silvertongue Grantaire that’s what people call me.”

Enjolras scoffed. “Absolutely no one calls you that.”

It should be mentioned as soon as possible that Enjolras wasn’t a lovestruck idiot. According to the formidable duo that is Combeferre and Courfeyrac, he was both, albeit reluctantly, lovestruck and he was definitely an idiot, but the two were in no way related. Enjolras is one of those people who are so, _so_ smart, but, at the same time, the most stupid person you have ever met. Beyond the typical disciplinary measures for ruckus-creating, he excelled in school and many of his teachers were convinced that one day, he would be presidential material. He was charismatic, passionate and spoke with a conviction that appealed to practically everyone around him. All that considered, something seemed to break in his brain when Grantaire tossed his head back and laughed fully and heartily at his petulant rebuttal. Cheeks heated, words got caught in his throat – something that was quite the accomplishment, let me tell you – and his chest felt heavy and light at the same time and on the whole, Enjolras hated every single second of it. In fact, he was almost grateful when Grantaire turned on his heel and strode out of the room, barely pausing to shout over his shoulder on his way out. “Well, they might if my lightning tongue let them get a word in edgeways!”

“I thought you said it was silver,” Enjolras mumbled despite Grantaire having already disappeared from the doorway, into the hubbub of the main office space.

“Ah, yes,” Courfeyrac said with a rather worrying amount of relish, smiling wickedly over at Enjolras, who refused to meet his eyes, knowing the mischief he’d find there. “And you’d know all about Grantaire’s tongue wouldn’t you, Enjolras?”

“You’re a plague and a menace, Courfeyrac.”

“I know, it keeps me up at night.”

***

***

“Hey, Ép!” Grantaire called in a singsongy voice, practically waltzing over to Éponine’s desk, phone in hand – which, nowadays, had become a sign that he was wanting something that would be potentially humiliating.

Knowing what was coming, Éponine dropped her head into her hands and groaned. “God, why can’t I just have one day of peace?”

“You don’t even know what I’m gonna ask!” Grantaire came to a halt, leaning against her desk briefly, only to stand up straight again a moment later, remembering all of the threats Ép had made in the past about him sitting on her desk.

“…what do you want, Grantaire?”

“Be in a TikTok for me?” he said with his cheesiest, most pleading grin, hoping that would spontaneously have any effect on her whatsoever – it hadn’t before, but there’s a first time for everything! ...Right?

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

“That’s not a ‘no’!”

Sometimes, one hears a sigh so deep and so full, that it makes one wonder whether certain exhalations can be classed as a kind of tropical storm. If ever there was one, it would have been this. “Fine,” the word could be dismissed as simply a resigned groan, but it was, in fact, an actual word, “but I’m not doing any fucking dances.”

Grantaire grinned. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Éppy, we all know you have two left feet.”

Éponine raised her eyebrows in a way that usually meant someone was about to be destroyed in an argument or wish that they’d never been born. “Okay,” she said with yet another sigh and a rather spectacular glare, “first of all, never call me that ever again. Second,” her face softened slightly into something at least slightly similar to a cheeky grin – with added austerity, of course - “I’m a great dancer, I just refuse to dance with _you.”_

“Ouch,” he pressed his hand to his chest, falling back slightly as though nursing a sudden, imaginary gunshot wound. “ _Et tu_ , Epi-pen?”

***

***

“Gav, wanna pretend to be smarter than me in a TikTok?” Gav didn’t have a desk, strictly speaking. Well, that’s to be expected when he technically wasn’t actually an intern on the campaign. What R said in his TikTok was very much true. He just started showing up a week and a half into the campaign and got on well with everyone, so they let him stay. It wasn’t until a few months later that they found out he was Éponine’s little brother. So, no, technically Gavroche didn’t have a desk. That doesn’t mean that one didn’t show up to the office one day, Enjolras swearing on his very-living - and very hated - mother’s grave that he had _nothing_ to do with it ‘absolutely nothing, Ferre, I don’t know where you found that Ikea receipt it must be from years ago.’ Through this combination of circumstances, Gavroche had ended up with the sturdiest desk out of them all, thus why Gav now had to deal with Grantaire fully reclining against said desk like a swooning maiden.

“Pretend?” It seems as though whatever gives Éponine her flair for perfect deadpan is genetic, or perhaps it’s some bizarre family ritual. Grantaire isn’t sure and, quite frankly, he is too terrified of both of them to ask. “Who’s pretending?”

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “God, you’re so lucky Enjolras says I can’t tell you to fuck off anymore.”

“And you’re lucky Ponine says I’m not allowed to verbally abuse other members of staff in the office anymore.”

“You in or not, you soggy hash brown of a human being?”

Grantaire has been informed on more than several occasions that he has a certain affinity for words, more specifically, an ability to use said words to reduce otherwise outspoken people into baffled silence. Gavroche had officially been baffled. “…Please just call me a little shit like a normal person, I’m begging you. It would hurt less.” Grantaire simply raised his eyebrows, confident that the threat of him opening his mouth again would be enough. It was. Never doubt the power of The Baffle. Gav sighed. “Yes, I’m in just give me a second to pretend to finish the work I’ve been pretending to do for the last hour.”

***

***

Recruiting the last person he needed for this video was far easier. Bahorel, Mr “I’ll-try-anything-twice-because-I-might-not-have-given-it-a-fair-chance-the-first-time”, was as go-with-the-flow as you’d expect of the person who dropped out of Harvard and moved to New York because he got a text at three in the morning from his drunk friend who _also_ wanted to drop out (Grantaire can be very persuasive when drunk it turns out.)

Eight years later and Grantaire was still persuasive, but no longer drunk. “Do you know that baby penguin sound on TikTok?” There was no need to announce his presence, who else would approach a six-foot-four PPO, babbling about TikTok sounds? Well, probably several of their friends but that’s not the point.

Bahorel shrugged. “Yeah, I think Feuilly showed me one a couple of days ago. Why?”

“Wanna be a confused child with me?”

Bahorel snorted out a laugh. “Is that not our constant state as friends?”

In the many years of their friendship, through dropping out of Harvard together and moving to New York on a whim, to helping each other through months of no furniture and exorbitant rent and heartbreak and missing their old friends and meeting new ones, all of the trials and tribulations that two friends can go through together, Bahorel and Grantaire had perfect the no-look high-five. And it wasn’t that they abused this ability, but it was definitely bizarre to see them do it fewer than five times a day. At least.

“See,” Grantaire began, pointing finger guns at his friend after their high-five, “this is why you’re my favourite!”

Bahorel chuckled. “Sure, if you say so, loverboy.”

With a groan, Grantaire turned on his heel and walked away, only slowing for a second to shout over his shoulder, “No longer my favourite!”

Bahorel was unperturbed, shouting after him loud enough to attract several glares from irritated volunteers who weren’t yet accustomed to the, how shall I say, informal working relationships in their office. “Never was!”

***

[22nd November Sound](https://va.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_qlul36MrrH1wnkg10.mp4)

***

Enjolras stared down at his phone, TikTok freshly installed. He just wanted to be aware of what all of the facets of the campaign were doing, okay? Grantaire himself had absolutely nothing to do with it and to suggest otherwise is completely ridiculous and “Seriously, Ferre, I don’t know why Courf told you that, I just want to make sure I’m caught up, is all!”

‘PontmercyHoR2020’ wasn’t exactly a common account name, so it wasn’t difficult to find. What made it even easier to distinguish from any similar accounts – which, god knows why or how there were any – because Grantaire was immediately visible in many of the thumbnails. Not that that was the reason he was there. That should be reiterated as many times as possible. At least until it becomes true.

The latest video, however, had Éponine in the thumbnail. God knows how he convinced her to be in it, it seems like her and Ferre’s workload seems perpetually heavier than even his.

She stood in front of a whiteboard with generic political strategy notes on it – thank god they hadn’t used the one in the boardroom, he would’ve had a heart attack and then abruptly started crying – miming an explanation, mouthing along with the background sound. “A baby penguin caught on an iceberg!”

The camera then cut to Gavroche sitting in front of her, eagerly taking in whatever she was saying. He had to give the kid credit; he was a better actor than he had expected. “Ooh! A baby penguin caught on an iceberg!”

Then it cut to Bahorel and Grantaire sitting together with matching furrowed brows. Rel leant over to Grantaire and then in a bewildered stage whisper, “What’s a penguin?”

And then Grantaire, even more baffled, “What’s an _iceberg_??”

It was funny. It was. Well, aspects were. No, that’s not fair. It _was_ funny. Why did it bother him? And _what_ was bothering him?

He watched it again.

“What’s an _iceberg??”_ That’s it.

Grantaire isn’t stupid. He got into Harvard for god’s sake! Rel too! Neither of them are stupid! _He’s_ the one being stupid. He can already hear R going “Chill out! It’s not that deep, Apollo!” That stupid nickname, too… He’s right, of course. It’s not that deep. But, isn’t it? All the time, he hears Grantaire making jokes about his incompetence, about how he’s the worst of their friend group, how he doesn’t deserve literally every good thing that he’s worked so hard for…

There’s nothing for it. He has to talk to Grantaire.

***

***

As much as Grantaire loved his job and his friends and everything… some days were just undeniably shitty. The posts he’d made recently weren’t doing as well as they should be, the person who’d expressed interest in buying one of his paintings had completely ghosted him, and to make it worse, the universe had decided not only that it was going to snow _heavily_ overnight, but that the heating in his apartment was going to break! It was one of the rare times he was glad he no longer lived with Joly and Boss; Joly would be frantically taking their temperatures to make sure they hadn’t spontaneously contracted pneumonia in the night and Boss would have slipped the moment he walked out the door, if not before somehow. So, Boss, as far as he knew, hadn’t fallen on the nasty patch of black ice right outside Grantaire’s apartment building. That, of course, doesn’t mean that R himself didn’t.

Showing up to work with a bruised ass and scraped palms would be enough to put anyone in a bad mood, and then his go-to coffee place went and closed for fumigation or some shit! By the time he arrived at work, twenty minutes late for a meeting with Courf I might add, and Enjolras was lurking about near R’s desk with a frown on his face, Grantaire was convinced the universe was conspiring against him.

Deep breath in, he told himself, and try not to spontaneously combust before lunch.

***

***

As it turned out, however, Grantaire didn’t get a lunch break. It was three-thirty before he got a chance to stop and sit down on his bruised ass to lick his metaphorical wounds – he’s not quite flexible enough to lick his literal ones.

Wolfing down his rather lacklustre pre-packed sandwich, he barely noticed anything around him, too caught up in his own head to even consider moving away from his shitty desk to the even shittier table near the kitchenette.

The meeting with Courf went fine, of course. He would never begrudge anyone a bad day and even offered to buy that painting himself. Courfeyrac is a good person. Unfortunately, Grantaire did not want to do deal with the guilt he always feels when surrounded by good people. Which, of course, happened to be all of his friends.

 _God_ , he thought _, I need some shittier friends… I wonder if Parnasse is in town…_

“Grantaire, you’re really good with politics.”

Enjolras was suddenly at his side with no warning or explanation, his face looking pinched, as though Grantaire had just said something particularly heinous. Like, “I think the electoral college might as well stay as it is”, or, “I don’t like the Kennedys' oration styles.”

He sighed. Time to get ready for a fight. Might as well. It’s just been that sort of day.

“Not that I don’t enjoy random compliments from you, Apollo,” he said, turning fully to face Enjolras with a look of a man resigned to being deliberate antagonistic though his heart wasn’t in it. It’s a thing, I promise. “but why now? Are you dying? Is this your way to finally express something other than contempt for me? Is ‘terse politics-based compliments’ your love language?”

“No, what?” Enjolras blustered, clearly frustrated if the pink blush rising in his cheeks was anything to go by. “No. I just, your TikTok… Why are you pretending you don’t understand all this? You basically contribute the most in those meetings… I’m just confused.”

Grantaire huffed a short laugh.

“Apollo, it’s just a joke. Chill out. It’s really not that deep.”

“I just wanted to make sure… You know you don’t have to pretend to be stupid, right?”

“And what do you mean by that, Enjolras?” The sudden clench in Grantaire’s jaw was quickly becoming uncomfortable, but he was determined to minimise how much of a dick he was going to be.

“Your value is not based around your fooling around and making us laugh, you know?” God, Enjolras was being so _earnest_. The dickhead.

“Oh, thank you so very much, Enjolras.” The sarcasm in his voice was so intense that if Enjolras weren’t so deeply confused by what was happening so very quickly, he’d probably find it funny, well, at least comical. “I am a changed man! I shall live my life anew!”

“Grantaire, I just meant—”

“I know _exactly_ what you meant, Enjolras.” Grantaire’s voice was so cold, colder than Enjolras had heard directed at him in a long, long time. Perhaps ever. God, how had he fucked up that bad so quickly?

“R—” But he was already walking away, shoulders hunched as he stormed over to where Bahorel was leaning on Feuilly’s desk, chatting away merrily to Jehan.

“Hey, y’all wanna go get shitfaced at The Wall of Hands?”

Jehan regarded him in that careful way of theirs, the way they can make anyone sure that they can see into your very soul. “Sure,” they said, glancing just for a second over Grantaire’s shoulder to where Enjolras still was, watching R’s back with a pained expression. “Any particular reason?”

Smile subtly strained, he gently patted their fine, red hair. “Nothing better to do on this fine Thursday evening, dear poet.” Most people in their group over the years have been utterly convinced at one time or another that Jehan Prouvaire, poet extraordinaire, is a psychic. Usually, this belief lasted no more than a month or two, but there had been a nagging bit of doubt in Grantaire’s mind for the last seven years. This doubt was exaggerated even further when Jehan wordlessly stood, moved from their desk and opened their arms.

Grantaire was not ashamed to admit that he practically collapsed into their arms.

“So,” they said after a moment into the crook of R’s neck and his shoulder, “it’s nothing to do with how sad you looked after you walked away from Enjolras?”

“…fucking emotional litmus paper,” Grantaire grumbled, pulling away. “I’ll talk to you about it when I have a drink or two in me, I promise.”

Bahorel and Feuilly looked between Grantair e and Jehan and then back at Enjolras who had once again slumped down at his desk. Something was clearly going on. “Well," Feuilly said, clapping a hand on Grantaire's shoulder, "whatever the occasion, we’re down." Bahorel nodded along eagerly.

***

***

The Wall of Hands was a local bar they, they being the Harvard bunch: Enjolras, Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Marius, Bahorel, and Grantaire, had discovered on their first week in Boston. Quickly, it became the location for their meetings. Well, they weren’t exactly _meetings_ per se. Combeferre, Courferyac and Enjolras had started Les Amis de l’ABC as a sort of pseudo study group, part working together on schoolwork, part try to save the world. Grantaire had, technically, been a part of Les Amis since its inception, having been hanging out with Combeferre after the history class they shared. He hadn’t been expecting to be invited back afterwards, considering that he’d spent practically the entire two-hour meetings in several vicious arguments with the fucking breath-taking blonde at the meeting who seemed to completely hate his guts.

Not much had changed, then.

“I just can’t seem to do anything right in his eyes…” This certainly wasn’t his finest hour, slumped against their usual table, second bottle of beer hardly touched in the two hours since he'd got it. “I mean I should be used to disappointing people, _especially him,_ by now…”

“Nope,” Jehan was shaking their head vehemently. “You stop talking like that. You might not be able to see it, but—”

“What?” he cut them off, an entirely unamused smile tugging at his cheeks. “That I have worth beyond my “fooling around”?” he said with air quotes. “Nice try, but Enjolras already said that.”

Feuilly waved a hand through the air. “He said fucking what?!”

“Condescending bastard,” Bahorel muttered, barely under his breath. _That he is,_ Grantaire thought ruefully. _I still fucking like him, though. So, what does that say about me?_

“Okay,” Jehan was nodding, “that’s patronising as all hell, but that’s my point! You might not be able to see it, R, but Enjolras is fundamentally a moron. He can be all charming when he wants to, and even though he’s been so shitty to you before that’s all you seem to want to see from him, but he’s so stupid when it comes to actually using his brain before he says things.”

Grantaire sat in silence for a few long moments. It wasn’t that he was trying to figure out what to say. He knew what he wanted to say. Whether he was actually going to say it, now that was the real question.

“I just—God I’m gonna sound so pathetic…”

“Maybe. But say it anyway.” Jehan was, as ever, almost frustrating in their ability to be eternally reassuring. Grantaire had seen them lose it just once and, by god, it was one of the most terrifying things he’s ever seen.

Ah, well. Here goes.

“I just… I just want him to like me…” he trailed off, knowing exactly how he sounded. He groaned. “ _Like_! Listen I’m like I’m a fucking tween.”

Jehan humming thoughtfully as Feuilly grimaced and Rel fought his impulse trying to get him to agree – gentle ribbing and insults were a part of their friendship, though, he thought, perhaps not the part Grantaire needed right now. “Another round, I think,” Jehan said.

Now, that was something Bahorel could get on board with. “On me,” he agreed.

***

[Getting ready for a supply run to Dunks](https://va.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_qlvdw9maGJ1wnkg10.mp4)

***

Cosette loved Marius, she really did. But her husband was a forgetful noodle of a man at the best of times. Who manages to leave an entire shoe at the office? He’ll forget his own head next! Good thing Cosette had two shoes and a key to the office building. The office building that was… unlocked? For some reason?

She was about to call out and give it the classic horror movie “Who’s there?” when she recognised the exact desk the light was coming from. “What are you doing here?” she asked, “Shouldn’t you have relocated to your desk at home by now?”

Enjolras barely raised his head from his laptop. “Hmm?”

“It’s 8:45.”

That got his attention. “PM?”

How is it that two of the most important men in her life were so utterly abysmal at taking care of themselves? First her husband, now her brother, and God knows their father was just as bad, putting his children above everything else, including his own health. The compassionate moron.

“Jesus Christ, Enj, okay. Come with me.”

“Where are we going?” he asked as she practically hauled him to his feet. He barely had the chance to grab his laptop and bag before she was pulling him towards the door.

“We’re going to get a drink, little one.”

She patted his hand like one might a child, an action that Enjolras seemed to take on board in his attitude. He groaned and dragged his feet and mumbled, “I’m 5’11”, you’re the little one, barely 7 minutes older…”

“Quit your mumbling, baby brother, it’s undignified,” Cosette admonished airily, mind already in The Wall of Hands.

***

***

“Oh, hello, everyone! How was work today?”

Rel was the first to open his mouth, with more tact than expected of him in general, but still not quite enough. “Uh, better for some than others…” Feuilly slapped his bicep entirely unsubtly. Those two deserve each other, seriously.

Cosette simply gave a neutral hum. “I can imagine…” Then immediately turning to her brother with an all-business tone that conveyed one simple message: ‘Do Not Fuck With Me’, “Enj, you and R go to the bar and get everyone a drink, I’ll have a vodka lemonade.”

If Floréal, the bartender whom they had all know since she started working at the bar several years ago, noticed the awkward air hanging between the two men at her bar, she didn’t mention anything. Bless her, honestly, Grantaire wasn’t sure he could handle anymore questioning tonight. As it was, he was already tapping his fingers restlessly against the bar, his hands itching for something to do, drawing, piano, anything really, even his phone would do. At least then he would have an excuse for the way he was avoiding Enjolras’s eye contact.

Enjolras, it seemed, did not hold the same reservations about talking to him. “I’m sorry I upset you… I didn’t mean to.”

Grantaire let out a huff of humourless laughter, his words coming out cold and bitter. “You didn’t upset me, Enjolras, I’m fine.” Wow, Grantaire hadn’t thought he was still mad at him. Turns out, he definitely was. He turned to go back to the table, begging whatever psychic abilities Jehan may or may not have that they at least would act as a buffer for the next fifteen excruciating minutes until R could feign a headache after the several hours their group had spent in the bar before the blondes had arrived and go home. But suddenly he was being stopped as Enjolras gripped his arm and pulled him back to the bar.

“Please,” he said, “please, just talk to me. Tell me what I said or the way I said it or whatever… tell me how I hurt you so I can make it right.”

The earnestness that had pissed him off earlier was back in full force and, yet, Grantaire couldn’t help but feel his anger fading by the second. Now, he was just tired. He just wanted this to be over with. He sighed and scrubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “The problem, Enjolras, is that you’re a condescending asshole and you don’t even notice. ‘You have value’ get fucked, seriously. I know I have value, Enjolras. I don’t need you to tell me that.” The words came out in a tirade just a tad too loud and frustrated and left the bar just a little bit quieter than it had been before.

“You’re right. I’m sorry.” The words were said quietly but without a single ounce of hesitation – perhaps a smidge of embarrassment, but who’s really to say.

A pause and Grantaire, somehow, didn’t feel angry at all anymore. Physically bruised, emotionally exhausted, and already contemplating calling in sick to work tomorrow? Yes. But, angry? No.

“I didn’t mean to say it like that,” he said eventually.

“You’re still right.”

Another pause, awkward and awful and made Grantaire’s mind scrabble for something, anything, to say that would fill the silence.

“…I’ve been thinking,” he said, “that maybe we should collaborate some more. On social media, I mean. Speechwriter to social media manager and everything…” he was rambling, he knew he was. Thank god for Enjolras taking pity on him and ending this before he said something truly humiliating.

“I’d like that.” And he was smiling! God, what right did he have to smile and make Grantaire’s heart do _that_? “Meet at my place at like 4 pm tomorrow? We can get a pizza delivered and talk about the TikTok and all that stuff?”

Grantaire laughed through the mini heart attack he was having. “It’s just TikTok, Apollo. Not _the_ TikTok.”

And then Enjolras was smiling again, and, more than that! He was laughing, just a little but enough to convince Grantaire that the universe must be playing a cruel trick on him where everything was going too perfectly, and the rug would be pulled out from under him at any second. “I’m trying my best here, okay?” Or maybe not? Maybe, just maybe, something good was happening.

***

[November 18th Sound](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C689vsIJfoo)

***

A day later, Grantaire hadn’t called in sick to work and was spending his evening sitting on Enjolras and Combeferre’s living room floor surrounded by piled of notes and two boxes of pizza. All in all, it wasn’t too bad a way to spend a Friday evening, to be honest.

“So, people like the team-based things? Like, the dynamics?” Enjolras asked around a mouthful of pizza.

“Yep, especially the conflict stuff like this.” Grantaire shuffled on the floor so that he was sitting next to Enjolras, leaning into him slightly as he held his phone out for them both.

It was a group lip-syncing video made to a scene from Parks and Recreation. Enjolras actually remembered this one being made. He wasn’t in it, but he could clearly remember how much fun everyone else seemed to be having on a cold October afternoon. It had been slightly irritating, to be honest. Not because of the noise, well, not _just_ because of the noise, but because he hadn’t even been asked. Maybe Grantaire had thought he wasn’t the kind to want to join in? Too busy, too focused on work… too aloof? It bothered him… but Grantaire wasn’t in it either? So maybe he was overthinking, reading too much into it all… Story of his life, at this point, really.

Just focus on the video, Enjolras.

Ép: So… who broke it? I’m not mad, I just want to know.

Ferre: I did, I broke it.

Ép: No, no you didn’t. Gav?

Gav: Don’t look at me! Look at Feuilly…

Feuilly: What? I didn’t break it!

Gav: Huh. That’s weird, how did you even know it was broken?

Feuilly: Because it’s sitting right in front of us and it’s broken!

Gav: Suspicious…

Feuilly: No, it’s not!

Jehan: If it matters, probably not, but Courf was the last one to use it…

Courf: Liar! I don’t even drink that crap!

Jehan: Oh, really? Then what were you doing by the coffee cart earlier?

Courf: I use the wooden stirrers to push back my cuticles! Everyone knows that, Jehan!

Ferre: Okay, let’s not fight, I broke it, let me pay for it, Ép.

Ép: No! Who broke it?!

Everyone: …

Feuilly: Ép… Rel has been awful quiet—

Rel: REALLY?

Enjolras was slightly surprised at the bark of laughter he let out at the end. Of course, they rarely got in squabbles like that – at least not at the office – anymore, but he could nevertheless see their group dynamics within the video. It almost made him nostalgic, which was bizarre considering he could hardly remember the last time he felt genuine nostalgia.

“Okay,” he said, the smile still on his face, “Well, we need more audience engagement, so if more content like that were made, do you think people would be more likely to engage with a Q&A type thing?”

Grantaire thought for a moment. “I think people would engage with a Q&A regardless, but yeah, they definitely would if we geared the content more towards what seems popular. What about a weekly Q&A thing? Like on Tuesday’s we ask for questions across platforms and on Thursdays we release a series of videos answering them?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

In eight years of knowing each other, this was the first time they’d worked together, just the two of them. Anyone who’d seen them at each other’s throats before would’ve put money on their partnership being a complete and utter train wreck, but this was going far better than anyone, even either of them, had expected.

I mean, for heaven’s sake, they were smiling! Contentedly looking at each other, neither saying anything for a moment, happy to just be. It was like a goddamn rom-com and Enjolras was so glad none of their friends was around to see it. God, Courfeyrac would be _unbearable._

***

***

Thursday Q&A No. 1

Question: Éponine and Combeferre, how do you cope with the rest of these dumbasses?

Answer: Combeferre: Well, to be completely fair to them, they’re only dumbasses about, I’d say… 40% of the time?

Éponine: Exactly. We hold onto the tolerable 60% and remain as caffeinated as possible the rest of the time.

Question: Anyone, Djungelskog?

Answer: Grantaire: I know the answer said anyone so I’m going with everyone.

[R hands the phone to someone – presumably Gavroche – stands on his office chair, bracing himself with one leg on his desk – Joly in the background looks like he’s about to faint – and holds up a printed out picture of the Djungelskog Ikea bear.]

Grantaire: Everyone, your attention, please! Djungelskog. Yes or no?

[A beat of silence]

[Then, a wave of affirmative sounding noises.]

Grantaire: The consensus seems to be: Yes.

Question: What’s everyone’s Hogwarts houses?

Answer: Combeferre: Ravenclaw

Courfeyrac, beaming: Hufflepuff

Jehan: Ravenclaw

Cosette: Hufflepuff

Marius: Gryffindor

Éponine: Slytherin

Bahorel: Gryffindor

Feuilly: Gryffindor [high-fives Bahorel]

Musichetta: Slytherin

Joly: Ravenclaw

Bossuet: Hufflepuff

Gavroche: Gryffindor

Grantaire: And I’m the definition of a tired, reluctant Hufflepuff

Enjolras: I object to everything J K Rowling has ever done and despise her with the vast majority of my heart and soul, why should I place myself in any box created by her?

Grantaire: He’s a Slytherin.

Question: You mentioned you’ve all known each other for a long time so, how did y’all meet?

Grantaire: Well, Enj and Sette have known each other since birth – give or take a few minutes – because they’re twins. Ép and Gav are also siblings which we didn’t know about when he showed up, but it worked out so that’s fun. Enj and Sette met Ferre and Courf when they were kids and grew up together. Marius and Ép have been friends since they were teenagers. Joly, Boss and Chetta all met at the bar where Chetta worked during college. Boss, Sette and Jehan met at college. Marius met Enj, me, Rel, Ferre, Courf and Feuilly while at college but me and Rel dropped out and moved to the big apple where we met NYC quartet and then Joly when he got a reprieve from med school. And we all formally met each other when Enj, Ferre and Courf reconvened Les Amis de l’ABC when we all moved back into the same city. Jesus f#%$ing Christ I‘m out of breath.

***

***

Enjolras was at the office late. Again. It was 6:34 pm on a Monday and he had no plans of going anywhere any time soon. “I got you coffee,” a voice by his desk said, making him tear his eyes away from his laptop screen.

“Oh,” he turned to look at his saviour and was moderately surprised to see Grantaire there. “Thank you,” he said, taking the drink and sparing a quick glare at his computer screen. “I really need a pick me up, I have a feeling I’m gonna be doing this all night.”

Grantaire scoffed. “Like hell you are! That’s decaf, Apollo, I’m not a fucking sadist.”

Enjolras scowled at his drink, looking at his drink with deep suspicion.

“Cheer up, dear, you might get stuck like that.”

“Fuck off.”

“Oooh! That’s not a very nice thing to say to the guy who just brought you coffee.”

“Still decaf,” he grumbled, smiling into his drink at the mere existence of them having a non-malicious rapport with one another, “But thank you.”

“It might surprise you, but I’m not just here for philanthropy. I wanted to get your consent to do a thing.”

“My consent?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire leaned against Enjolras’s desk, “I wanna make a new TikTok series and it involves you but because of the nature of it I can’t tell you what it’s about.”

“Yeah,” he sighed. Sleepless Monday nights are absolutely made for making poor judgement calls. “Okay, why not. You have my consent.”

“Oh, you have no idea what you just signed up for.” Grantaire shot him a cheeky smile before turning to leave the way he came, stopping just before he reached the door and turning back to Enjolras. “Do you want a ride home? Seriously, it’s Monday, you have the rest of the week to make grumpy faces at your computer.”

“Grantaire…”

“Please?”

He sounded so genuinely concerned... What was Enjolras supposed to do? “Okay.”

***

[Meet the Team - Alternative Version](https://va.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_qlwmvxstaH1wnkg10.mp4)

***

“Welcome to Antagonising Enjolras! A series where I attempt to finally drive my colleage into an early grave by being me!” Grantaire said brightly into his phone camera. “Antagonising Enjolras day one!”

The video cuts to approaching a confused-looking Enjolras in the kitchenette. “Hey, Enjolras? What college did you go to, I can’t remember?” Grantaire continues. Enjolras is suitably baffled.

“…You can’t remember…?”

“Yeah, wasn’t it some little community college, or something?”

“Some little…. What?”

“Yeah, I’m not sure what you’re not getting here? Wasn’t it like Howard? Harwin? Or, like Har—”

“Harvard?”

“Yes! That’s it!”

“You mean Harvard the university? Where you also went? The Harvard University where we _met?”_

 _“_ ……Yeah, okay I’ve got your point.” The video cuts back to just Grantaire, Enjolras having gone back to his desk to work. “Day one of Antagonising Enjolras is a failure, though, to be fair maybe I should’ve picked a different topic to start on than the college we both went to.”

***

***

“Antagonising Enjolras day three.” The video begins very similarly to the last one, this time, however, Grantaire approaches Enjolras while running – or at the very least jogging. “OH MY GOD ENJOLRAS ARE YOU OKAY?!?!?!” he whisper-shouts. Once again, Enjolras is baffled.  
“...I’m... fine...?”

“Really? Are you sure?

“...Yes...?”

“But you’re wearing jeans!! I thought that must mean you’ve lost the will to live!”

“It’s casual Friday, Grantaire.”

“Yeah, but jeans for you is like me showing up in a onesie!”

“Didn’t you and Rel do that a few weeks ago?”

“Okay but that’s not the—”

The video cuts to Grantaire as he walks away from Enjolras. “Day three of Antagonising Enjolras is a resounding failure, but I have a devious plan.”

***

***

“Day 8 of Antagonising Enjolras.” “Hey, Enj, you know how I haven’t voted in a US election in my life?”

“.......F#%$king EXCUSE ME?? What the EVERLOVING F#%k, Grantaire? How could you never have voted? You're 26! I’ve known you since you were 18!! And you’ve never voted?! Of all the irresponsible, stupid—“ Suddenly, Combeferre cuts in angrily.

“ENJOLRAS!”

“Ferre, he’s—!”

“Shh. Go ahead, R.”

“Thank you, dear guide and mediator. As I was saying, Enjolras, I just think it really sucks that I’m a permanent resident here and yet can’t vote because I’m not a citizen.”

Enjolras is decently flustered and is trying to hide his blush from the camera. “I apologise....and I fully agree.”

“What was that? Could you say it louder, I’m afraid I’m going quite deaf in my old age”

Enjolras sighs and faces both Grantaire and the camera head-on. “I apologise and I fully agree with you.”

“Thank you. Now I’m gonna go take the citizenship test so I can vote republican.” Grantaire starts to run away as he speaks, and Enjolras is hardly two steps behind him.

“YOU LITTLE SHI—“

The camera cuts to Grantaire again, he is now outside. Still running, though.

“Day eight of Antagonising Enjolras is a success but I don’t think I can ever stop running so… mixed blessing? ”

***

***

Things had been going great with Enjolras recently. Really, they had! Except, the more immediate recent times, that is. In fact, they had barely spoken since the last Antagonising Enjolras had gone live at the end of the previous week. Now, it was Wednesday of the next week, the second to last week until the office is closed for the week of Christmas and New Year’s, and Grantaire found himself going a little stir crazy without Enjolras.

Well, no. Because Enjolras was _right there_ except he wasn’t because every time Grantaire was going to suggest getting coffee or make some stupid joke about some ancient Greek philosopher, he had a meeting to get to, or he was too busy with work, or literally anything other than having the time to speak to him.

So Grantaire was losing his mind, just a little.

Perhaps it was creepy and unfair and just a tad stalker-ish to calculate which place in the office he would be most likely to be able to corner Enjolras to talk to him – scratch that, _very_ stalker-ish – but it was the only plan he had to not completely go off the deep end, so that’s what he went with.

Quite predictably, that place turned out to be the printer. _Quelle cliché, non?_

“You’re not actually pissed at me for that last TikTok, right?” he didn’t even bother announcing his presence, assuming that he was working on borrowed time as it was.

“No, Grantaire, I’m fine.” He wasn’t, though, of course, he wasn’t. He could barely look Grantaire in the eye, for god’s sake!

Grantaire could feel a ramble coming, that inability to shut up he had as a kid coming back with a vengeance to bite him in the ass. “Are you sure? Because I thought we were getting on better and I was really starting to feel like we could be friends and all that shit and—”

“We are friends, Grantaire.”

“Really?”

“Of course.” He still hadn’t looked him in the eye and for some reason that hurt far more than just being told to ‘fuck off’ ever would have.

“…. You haven’t called me R, or even Taire or some shit since I made that stupid fucking video, so just tell me you’re pissed at me so I can fix it because I can’t fucking handle this—”

“Grantaire, R, please,” a hand was on his arm, warm and grounding and it made Grantaire’s heart skip a beat – yet another reminder of just how unbelievably _fucked_ for this man he was. Enjolras was finally looking him in the eye, sad and pleading and R felt a tiny bit of his heart chip away. He never wanted Enjolras to be sad. Ever. “Just…” he sighed. “I am pissed. Just not at you.”

Grantaire watched him for several long moments before he even considered speaking. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asked, “Or if you want, we can just go get drunk in silence together…”

Enjolras sighed, resigned, leaning fully against the whirring printer. “Have you seen the comments on the video?”

Grantaire was struck with an abrupt realisation. Really? That’s it?

“Ohhh… You’re pissed about that? A couple of racist asshats making noise under a few TikToks?”

“A few?” Enjolras looked at him with wide eyes. Okay, perhaps not the best way to word that…

“Okay, that’s not the point. Point is, I can handle this. Seriously, it’s fine.”

“It’s not fucking fine…” he trailed off as R sent him a stern look. It wasn’t a glare. It wasn’t. But it _did_ get his point across. ‘ _This isn’t your fight, Apollo. Let me deal with it.’_ “Fine,” he acquiesced, though his jaw was still set with determination. “What’s your plan for dealing with this?”

“My plan?” Grantaire snorted, “Since when have I ever had a plan about anything?”

“In that case, I would like to propose that this become a joint project with the others.” His words were formal, but his smile was devious and Grantaire felt like he could finally relax again.

“Oh, baby,” he said, leaning playfully forward, “you know I love it when you talk business-formal to me.”

“Be serious.” A blush was spreading up Enjolras’s neck, and Grantaire felt as though he was physically holding parts of his mind down to stop them from conspiring to find an explanation that led to them making sweet, sweet love against the photocopier. Jesus fucking Christ, get a hold of yourself, R.

He settled for a cocky, cool reply and a lopsided grin instead of whatever his brain was doing. “I am wild.” Probably for the best.

***

***

“So, let me get this right,” Éponine was leaning forward in her chair in the boardroom, hands clasped in front of her as she tried to fathom what had just been said, “you want to have this campaign make a major statement over our attitude to racism over TikTok?”

“Yes.” Grantaire and Enjolras answered simultaneously and that was quite frankly unnerving enough – I mean, those two could hardly usually agree on pizza toppings, let alone campaign policy – to have her seriously considering this as she exchanges a look with Combeferre.

“And how many racists do you think this will piss off?”

“Oh hopefully at least, like, twelve?” Grantaire answered alone this time, immediately, before Enjolras could even open his mouth. In the past, Grantaire cutting Enjolras off would have made him seethe with rage, but, now, for some reason, he was grinning at what R said. God, it’s going to take her a while to get used to that level of friendship between them.

Combeferre nodded, as did Courfeyrac. “Worth it,” he decided. “Marius?” The room looked to their candidate.

“Well, you know me, I’m always down to piss off fascists!”

Courfeyrac let out a bark of laughter. “Ah, how you have improved since our first meeting!”

“Yeah, thank god for that,” Combeferre muttered. He remembered their first meeting with Marius all too clearly. It hadn’t been, how to put it, _ideal_ in terms of civil conversation. Water under the bridge and all that, but Marius hasn’t brought up his opinions about Napoleon’s historical impact since.

***

  
  


***

The voice Grantaire used to speak on camera this time was nowhere near his usual joking tone. This was more… restrained. Still jovial, still bright. But with an element of fakeness to it that Enjolras saw right through. As much as he had pretended that it hadn’t bothered him much, Grantaire was definitely still pissed off. “So, a couple of videos ago I mentioned that I’m not a US citizen and suddenly the comments were flooded with…. oh dear! What’s the word! Hey, Enjolras,” Enjolras stepped into frame just as he was supposed to. “You’re a wordsmith! What’s the word for the kind of person who would see a brown man saying he’s not a US citizen and then go and comment and I quote ‘build the wall’ approximately 34 times underneath several of the videos on the account?”

“Well, of course, there are many words,” Enjolras’s own voice was measured, academic, but the shortness was clearly audible to anyone hearing it. “but I think the least likely to get you, how did you put it earlier, ‘shadow banned’? Is racist.”

“And how do we respond to racism here, Enjolras?”

“Hmm,” he paused in mock thought, “I’m not sure. I think we should take this to the boss.”

“Boss!” Bossuet stepped in frame immediately, only to step out again a moment later. This video was planned to a T.

“No, the boss not the Boss.” Boss stepped away.

“Oh, Marius?” And Marius stepped in.

“Hmm?”

“What do we say to racists here?” Grantaire asked with a smile, which Marius warmly returned.

“And, just to be clear, this isn’t a trick question?”

“Nope!”

“Okay then uh, we say, to the racists, uh,” he paused to raise his middle fingers to the camera, ‘fuck off!’” Marius, ever the gentle soul, remembering every second of his Catholic school education, blushed a rather furious scarlet colour, but never stopped smiling.

“I’ve never been so proud,” Courf sniffed, stepping into frame behind Marius.

Then, a muffled shout from Bahorel offscreen – this part had not been scripted but Grantaire would be damned before he cut it out, “HE’S CANADIAN, FUCKERS”

Then a shout from Feuilly, really, those two, what a pair, “MERRY CHRISTMAS!!”

***

[Marius is Courf's favourite white boy](https://va.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_qlwnc7cqpl1wnkg10.mp4)

***  
  


Enjolras had never been what you’d call ‘the life of the party.’ That had always been Courfeyrac, he was always the one to drag both of his closest friends out of the library to the generic high school party of the week. Though the atmosphere of the office’s non-denominational holiday party, in general, reeked less of Axe, cheap beer, hormones, and sexual frustration, Enjolras nevertheless found himself dawdling on the outskirts of the party.

“Why’re you lurking around here, Apollo? Mariah not your jam?”

Enjolras hummed noncommittally around a sip of his drink – it was a concoction brought by Musichetta that she promised wouldn’t be strong enough to get him plastered. Well, her exact promise had been “enough to make everything just a little bit softer but not enough to have you vomiting in a desk drawer” and that had seemed ideal at the time. Now, though, with Grantaire by his side, so close that he could feel the post-dumb-dancing heat radiating off him, he wished it were just a bit stronger.

Grantaire seemed, perhaps wilfully, unaware of his panic. “Don’t let Courf hear you saying that. He’ll disappear you for disrespecting an icon.”

“He’s survived my continuous disrespect of his coffee choices for years; he can manage my dislike of one Christmas song.”

“Not in the mood to dance, then?”

“Can you seriously see me dancing to Mariah Carey?”

“You’re not above Mariah, Enjolras!” Courfeyrac yelled from practically the other side of the room like he had some kind of conversational sonar to know exactly when and where someone was talking shit about Mariah Carey. To be completely fair, if anyone were to have that superpower, it would be Courfeyrac. “No one is above Mariah!”

A snort is possibly one of the least elegant sounds one can make, that is an objective truth. And, yet, all entirely unexpectedly, Enjolras was struck with the realisation that Grantaire snorting with a barely suppressed bark of laughter was perhaps the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

“Warned you…” he said in a singsongy voice and suddenly laughter was bubbling up his throat and Enjolras found himself, rather unexpectedly, unable to stop laughing. Grantaire, caught a bit off guard, stood in stunned silence for a second before joining in.

Maybe he didn’t need the extra liquid courage then? Really, this wasn’t too bad! They were joking together and having fun and just existing next to each other without needing to spend every second talking. It was rather… wonderful!

It wasn’t that they hadn’t laughed together like this before, because after eight years they’d had plenty of group jokes, meetings of their student society – Les Amis de l’ABC – interrupted and broken down but a series of dumb puns… and they’d definitely laughed together just the two of them!... Right…?

Either way, Enjolras definitely wanted to do it more.

Gradually, though, the laughter faded and Grantaire was leaning his head back against the wall, his neck a long line and his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. Never mind, Enjolras definitely needed another drink. Well, he definitely needed something.

Oh, god. He needed to kiss Grantaire.

 _Just breathe, Enjolras,_ he could hear a voice in his head that he swore sounded a hell of a lot like Combeferre. Just breathe. Make a decision and breathe.

Okay. Decision made. And Grantaire was still talking, oh god, he really should be listening.

“Couple months and we’ll be out of this office for good whatever the polls say.”

A thoughtful hum (read: Enjolras needed a second to let his brain catch up after his mini-panic.) “I’ll miss this place...” he said eventually. “Oh god,” he groaned after a second. “I’m going to have to figure out what to do with that desk, aren’t I?”

Grantaire’s smile was immediate and blinding, but his voice was soft and it made something light flutter in Enjolras’s chest. “I knew it was you.”

“You don’t sound surprised,” he said around a laugh.

“Like I said. I knew it was you.” Then, after a pause, voice even softer – as though he didn’t fully intend Enjolras to hear it. “I know you Enjolras.”

They looked at each other for a moment before looking away, R smiling almost dopily at his feet.

“What are you smiling at?” Grantaire just shrugs. “What?” he prompts again, watching R intently.

“I’m just happy that we can have moments like this together now because as good as we are at arguing, I really like not yelling at much.” R was still looking at his feet, smiling as he spoke, but Enjolras could feel him leaning into his side slightly, warming his arm with his.

“Moments like that are good,” Enjolras agreed, nodding, accepting his decision. “I like moments like these more, though.”

Grantaire looked back up at him, tilting his head slightly, confused. “Moments like what?”

And then Enjolras was kissing him, brief but so, so wonderful. His lips tasted like Chetta’s cocktail and the strawberry and cream mini meringues at the snack table. Wonderful. And it was over so quickly, and he was pulling away far too soon and it was all Grantaire could do not to chase after him.

“Moments like this.” Grantaire was baffled for a moment as his brain tried to catch up with the fact that they were continuing their conversation, that there _was_ a conversation before that. It took a couple of speechless moments, something quite new for Mr Rambler Grantaire, before he got his mental faculties back.

When he spoke again, it was huffed around a breathless laugh. “I could definitely have more of those, yeah!” And they finally leant into each other once more.

***

***

Epilogue

“Wait, so both couples got together tonight?” Marius asked, slightly tipsy and playing social catch up once again – really it was like they were back in college!

“What?” Feuilly spluttered on his drink, ignoring Rel’s groan as some of it landed on his jeans – an occupational hazard of having your boyfriend sitting in your lap he had learnt, “No? Me and Rel have been together since March!”

“Wait, what?” Grantaire asked, finally tearing his eyes off his own, _brand new_ boyfriend.

“Yeah? We’re hardly subtle!”

“You’ve always been touchy with each other!”

“Ép literally saw us making out in June!”

Éponine scoffed and turned her head to Feuilly, earning a slight tug of the hair from Jehan, who was braiding it. “I’m not a fucking snitch, Feuilly, of course, I wasn’t gonna say anything.”

“…God how are you all so fucking dumb? You’re literally the smartest people I have ever met but you’re also the dumbest people I’ve ever met how is that possible?” Feuilly scrubbed a hand over his face as Grantaire laughed at him.

“Oh, that’s very nice of you to say. And at Christmas! Merry Christmas!”

Bossuet, from his place lying face-down on the floor – he had somehow got very drunk, very, very quickly and so his lovers, who were sitting around him, holding one of his hands each, were watching over him diligently, and if phones were brought out to film drunken rambles then that was between them and their groupchats – spoke suddenly, speech slurred in the perfectly golden, comedic way, “And a happy new year!”

Of course, it would be a happy new year. There would be many more to come.

**Author's Note:**

> And that's it! An 11k monstrosity I wrote in the span of six days with a real bitch of a writer's block in the end. We got through it tho, lads!! 
> 
> Anyway, as always, comments and kudos are welcomed and appreciated and thank you for bearing with my dumbass sense of humour! Merry Crime!


End file.
